


(not) Cognitive Consequences of Acting (but close enough)

by isuilde



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, I guess???, M/M, Unrepentant Fluff, description of fictional death and grief, honestly just “spring troupe and fushimi omi love tsuzuru” fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 23:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20054065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isuilde/pseuds/isuilde
Summary: The tears are hot against his cheeks as he gives in and draws the heavy body closer, soundless sobs muffled into slack shoulders as he shakes and shakes and shakes. His head is a screaming white haze of grief, nothing but the crushing feeling of loss—that childish grin, brighter than the sun, that warmth underlining the words welcoming him home, that laughter trailing in the last syllables of his name—“...Tsuzuru-kun...?”Something in him recognizes. Familiar syllables, a familiar feeling of being called. Odd, because he doesn’t know who it is, and he doesn’t want to think about it because he just wants his brother back, alive and warm and grinning over a cup of tea as he listens to the latest tale of his clients. He just wants—“Tsuzuru-kun, it’s okay.”(During dress rehearsal, Tsuzuru fails to return to reality).





	(not) Cognitive Consequences of Acting (but close enough)

**Author's Note:**

> When I was in high school, I joined a Thespian community club for one short year and we did a bunch of plays. One of them was a play with several narrative monologues, and one of my good friends wasn’t able to get out of her role even after going off the stage and just kept crying for a good hour. I was simultaneously impressed with her performance and worried to death.
> 
> Long story short: I shoved that memory to Tsuzuru and then heaped love upon him.
> 
> I hope you’ll enjoy this nonetheless!

Distantly, he thinks he’s crying.

_Breathe_, a small voice on the back of his head frantically tells him, but his throat is clogged with despair and grief and a part of him just wants to curl around the body in his arms, unmoving and heavy, still warm, still too warm—like his younger brother’s hand hadn’t just gone slack in his clutch, his last smile a weak curve around an apology.

And if his brother is gone, who is he to keep breathing?

The tears are hot against his cheeks as he gives in and draws the heavy body closer, soundless sobs muffled into slack shoulders as he shakes and shakes and shakes. His head is a screaming white haze of grief, nothing but the crushing feeling of loss—that childish grin, brighter than the sun, that warmth underlining the words welcoming him home, that laughter trailing in the last syllables of his name—

“...Tsuzuru-kun...?”

Something in him recognizes. Familiar syllables, a familiar feeling of being called. Odd, because he doesn’t know who it is, and he doesn’t want to think about it because he just wants his brother back, alive and warm and grinning over a cup of tea as he listens to the latest tale of his clients. He just wants—

“Tsuzuru-kun, it’s okay.”

It’s not  _ okay _ . He shudders, almost hyperventilates when someone pries away the body in his arms, fresh tears blurring his sight even as he flails, his energy leaving him rapidly as he fails to grasp his brother’s hand back.  _ No _ , he thinks he’s saying, _give him back, give him back, give my brother back, give—_

_ —who...? _

“Tsuzuru-kun, come back to us. Come on. You’re okay.”

Hands on his shoulders, another grasping his fingers and holding on like an anchor. A steady murmur of a name— _ his name..? _ —and gentle humming from somewhere behind his back. He tries to breathe, chokes on his tears, and someone starts patting him on the back gently.

“That’s it. Breathe. You’re okay. You’re with us. Come back, Tsuzuru.”

That’s not his name. That’s not his—

_ —his name is— _

“Tsuzuru...?”

_ His name. _

“Oh,” he breathes, his sight blurry with tears and his mouth feels dry even as it tastes like he’s swallowing a fistful of salt. Tsuzuru blinks, more hot tears rolling down his cheeks, and the Director’s face swims into focus. She looks calm, a small reassuring smile on her lips, and by her side, Citron crouches next to a still bloody-looking Sakuya, both looking worried and seemingly hesitant to reach out.

Tsuzuru looks down at his own “bloodied” hands, watches his tears fall on his palms, and finally,  _ finally _ , the haze lifts.

“Are you okay?” Itaru’s words greet his ears like the water flowing in a lowland river, his palm a gentle, rhythmic movement against Tsuzuru’s back. “Breathe. Slowly—“ Tsuzuru closes his eyes, takes a breath and exhales, and Itaru hums in approval. “There you go. You’re okay.”

“Back with us, Tsuzuru-kun?” the Director asks, careful and kind like she always is. Tsuzuru gives a small nod despite the fresh tears that burst out of his eyes, and when she squeezes his fingers, he realizes that he’s been holding on to her hands.

He hears Masumi making a disapproving noise and finds himself expecting the younger boy to snatch away the Director’s hand until Masumi’s words actually get processed in his brain: “He’s still crying, how is that ‘okay’?”

“It takes a bit of a time,” and that’s Chikage, who, now that Tsuzuru starts to recognize his surroundings, is standing behind the Director with Masumi. They both have their phones out, shoulders tense like they’re ready to call for help if needed.

Tsuzuru blinks again, thinks about how their phones clash with their medieval-themed costumes, and remembers: rehearsal. They’re doing the last day dress rehearsal, and he’d gotten to the part where his character had to kill his younger brother, and somehow, he’d gone too far.

“I’m sorry,” he says, cheeks burning of embarrassment even as more tears spring anew. He lets go of the Director’s hand, rubs away the tears only to have them start again. “I’m not—sure what happened there...”

“You were just too deeply immersed in Raven,” Itaru says, the gentle pats on Tsuzuru’s back turning firmer. “No big deal, happens sometimes.”

Sakuya looks at him apologetically. “I probably shouldn’t have suggested actually using the fake blood for the dress rehearsal... I’m sorry, Tsuzuru-kun...”

“No, no, nooo!” Citron frowns, one hand finding Sakuya’s shoulder in a firm hold. “It’s no one’s vault, so both Tsuzuru and Sakuya shouldn’t apologize, da yo!”

A split-second pause, before Itaru takes the responsibility of correcting Citron onto himself, “I think he means ‘fault’?”

“That’s it!” Citron grins, and Tsuzuru almost chokes on the laughter bubbling on his throat. There’s still fresh tears brimming in his eyes, embarrassingly uncontrollable, but the crushing feelings of loss and the heavy haze of being ‘Raven’ has lifted, the sadness and grief now a mere echo of what he had felt earlier. He tries for a smile, and when his lips finally curves up, the relief that spreads within him feels almost tangible.

“Let’s take a break,” the Director says, rising to her feet and putting her hands on her hips with an air of authority she rarely displays outside of the rehearsal room or the stage. Or the kitchen, when it comes to curry. “Citron-kun, Masumi-kun, and Sakuya-kun, let’s discuss your scene earlier a bit, shall we? Tsuzuru-kun, you should maybe go and wash your face, you’ll feel better after.”

Tsuzuru doesn’t protest, mostly because his tears still haven’t stopped for some reason, even if he isn’t ugly crying like he has earlier. He doesn’t refuse Itaru’s hand offering to help him up either, even if he ends up mostly pulling himself up because Itaru has noodle arms and can’t be trusted to lift anything heavier than game controllers. 

“Need anyone to go with you?” Chikage offers lightly, half-distracted with his phone, but this one, Tsuzuru refuses with a smile.

“No, it’s okay, Chikage-san. I’ll manage. Thanks anyway.”

Chikage looks up from his phone to give him a nod and an understanding smile. “Alright then.”

——-o0o——-

When Tsuzuru finally rounds the corner leading to the washroom and sees Omi’s familiar bulk by the door, he thinks he should have expected this.

“Fushimi-san,” he mumbles, half-mortified and half-embarrassed as he tries in vain to rub away the last of the tears from his eyes. He hears Omi’s chuckle, gently filling the last five steps that span the distance between them even before Omi himself closes that distance. There’s a towel in his hand, raised almost as if in offering to Tsuzuru, and Tsuzuru doesn’t know if his sigh sounds more exasperated or in love.

“Someone tattled on me, didn’t they?” Tsuzuru says, blinking away tears so he can see Omi’s face clearly. Except the last thing he sees is Omi’s fond smile, because then the towel wraps around his head, the fabric damp and still warm like it’s just been submerged into hot water, and it’s so soft it almost tickles his nose. He feels steady arms pulling him forward into familiar, reassuring arms, feels a hand gently presses his head against a solid torso, tucking it gently under a chin.

The heartbeat under his ear is a calming staccato. Tsuzuru breathes into the towel that separates his face and Omi’s chest, counts the beat up to ten before going back to one and starting over, and maybe it’s the towel, or maybe it’s the solid arms around him, holding but not caging and yet no less secure anyway, but he could feel the last echo of grief and loss fading away, the last haze of ‘Raven’ releasing him from its clutch.

When his eyes are no longer brimming with tears, Tsuzuru burrows into Omi’s arms and says, “Was it Masumi, or Chikage-san?”

Omi’s hum is a gentle rumble under his ear. “If I tell you, he’d be so embarrassed he might not turn up for dinner.”

“Masumi, then.” And the thought of the younger boy sending short, demanding LIME messages for Omi to wait for Tsuzuru by the washroom makes Tsuzuru laugh, somehow. “This has never happened to any of us before. I guess he must have been surprised.”

“Tasuku-san once said that it’s a rare experience,” Omi says, a deliberate thoughtful tone underlining his words. “And that it might be a bit terrifying, but mostly it’s like a privilege for an actor. You can’t be anymore closer to your role than when you’ve completely lost yourself in it.”

“I would have thought that this is a normal thing that happens, for Tasuku-san.”

“Hahaha, perhaps. He does always seem like he complety turns into his role, every single time he gets on the stage.” Omi’s head moves, and Tsuzuru feels him drop a kiss on top of his head. “But to be honest? I kind of want to see Tsuzuru being lost in his role, too.”

Tsuzuru huffs into the towel fabric. “It was embarrassing.”

“But it’s still a side of Tsuzuru that I didn’t get to see.”

“...seriously, Fushimi-san, you say the most embarrassing things sometimes...”

Tsuzuru gives himself another moment before pushing against Omi’s chest to let go. The towel flutters down, but he manages to catch it before it falls, and it’s with a smile that he looks back up at Omi. “Thank you, Fushimi-san.”

Omi takes the towel from Tsuzuru’s hand and presses the still warm part of it against the corner of Tsuzuru’s right eye. “Your eyes are really red. You should ask Azami to help you with it, later.”

“I will—“ and before Tsuzuru can finish, Omi leans down to press a soft kiss on the each corner of his eyes, trails them down the side of his face, and catches the corner of Tsuzuru’s lips. Tsuzuru’s cheeks burn almost immediately, but he tilts his head slightly anyway to draw a proper kiss from Omi, before making himself pull away. 

“I have to go back,” he tells Omi, fingers reluctantly letting go of Omi’s shirt clutched within his hand. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Omi nods, his thumb still resting over Tsuzuru’s jaw gently. “I’ll drop by the rehearsal room in a bit. Chikage-san said he wanted spicy honeyed lemon for rehearsal snacks.”

“Wait, so it was Chikage-san who tattled on me?”

Omi laughs his kind, deep laughter that always sends butterflies bursting inside Tsuzuru’s stomach. “Both, actually. They really love you, Tsuzuru.”

_ I love you, _ Tsuzuru thinks, unbidden, but doesn’t say. Instead, he gives into the urge to lean forward and presses his forehead against Omi’s, and whispers, “Thank you, Omi-san.”

Omi’s smile is as warm as the air they share. “Good luck with the rehearsal.”

****

**——-o0o——-**

Later, when Tsuzuru returns to the rehearsal room to Chikage roasting Itaru over his noodle limbs and Citron cheerfully quizzing Masumi and Sakuya on their Citron Vocabulary with the Director’s bright laugh in the background, Tsuzuru thinks, _ I love all of you, too. _

Masumi hands him his script and looks at him expectantly. “Are you okay now or do we have to postpone the entire rehearsal?”

“You’re not cute at all,” Tsuzuru complaints, grins when Masumi shrugs and leaves Tsuzuru with a demand to make Citron stop quizzing them before returning to where the Director is. Tsuzuru considers the demand for a whole two seconds and decides that since Sakuya and Citron seem to be having fun, he’ll take Citron’s side on this, just this once.

He looks down to the script, to the first line that Raven speak at the very beginning of the play, and smiles.

“Hey, Raven,” he says, because this is the character he has created and given life to. If Tasuku-san said that it’s a privilege for an actor to be lost in their role, then surely it’s doubly so for the one who gives them existence?

And so Minagi Tsuzuru promises.

“I’ll do my best.”

****

**——-o0o——-**

  
  
  



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